


volver al punto de partida

by extasiswings



Category: 9-1-1 (TV)
Genre: Angst, Complex Relationships to Cultural Heritage, Family Dynamics, Gen, Insecurities, Introspection, Soft Eddie Diaz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:35:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23906281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extasiswings/pseuds/extasiswings
Summary: Eddie’s jaw ticks, shame curling in his stomach as she switches over to Spanish.  It’s a deliberate shift, that much is obvious from the way she’s looking at him, and he knows what she wants so he tries.And fails.
Comments: 44
Kudos: 212





	volver al punto de partida

**Author's Note:**

> In which the author has a lot of feelings about the complex relationship to cultural heritage that many of us who are mixed-race have and speculates that Eddie likely has the same struggles. Title from "El cántaro roto" by Octavio Paz. The title translation is, loosely, "to return to the point of departure."

Eddie doesn’t expect the invitation. And when it comes, he doesn’t know what to say.

“Abuela…”

“Edmundo, it’s not a suggestion.”

It would be one thing if they were having this discussion over the phone, but she felt the need to bring it up in person as he was picking up Christopher, so he doesn’t even have the cover of distance. He doesn’t know how to deal with the tightness in his chest, the discomfort of feeling out of his depth, and he’s tired enough after a long shift that he can’t even figure out where to start. But he knows one thing.

“We can’t just come over for Día de Muertos,” he says. “We’ve never celebrated—Christopher doesn’t even know what it is.”

That elicits nothing more than a deeply unimpressed look. 

“Puedes enseñarle.” _You can teach him._

Eddie’s jaw ticks, shame curling in his stomach as she switches over to Spanish. It’s a deliberate shift, that much is obvious from the way she’s looking at him, and he knows what she wants so he tries.

And fails. 

“Abuela, no sé—” He blows out a breath in frustration. “—tú sabes no puedo—”

_I don’t know—you know I can’t—_

_Can’t even finish a damn sentence_ , he thinks. His tongue feels clumsy, too heavy, and the words don’t come easily to mind. He has to reach for them, and it’s like he’s digging through mud—they slip and slide out of his hands, a verb conjugation here, a noun there. It’s not that he doesn’t like speaking Spanish. It’s not that he doesn’t wish he was better at it. But it instinctively makes him tense when he does, too many years of only being able to with Pepa and his abuela, with his cousins rolling their eyes at him when he couldn’t keep up with their rapid-fire conversations, with his father hissing, “En inglés, Mama,” and the resulting arguments whenever he was around.

He had to take it in school, but that was easy. Basic. He was miles ahead of the classmates that didn’t seem to be able to grasp the simple concept of not pronouncing the letter h, but with his family, with the other Latinx kids in his community—

And what’s the saying? Use it or lose it?

He really didn’t use it much. 

“I can’t teach him because I don’t know enough about it myself,” Eddie finishes. “Which you know, so I don’t see why we’re even talking about this.”

“Then maybe it’s past time you learned as well,” she replies. “Consider it, Edmundo. It’ll be good for you. And him.”

There’s no real reason to be so uncomfortable—logically, Eddie knows that. He knows she’s trying to help in her own way, and it’s far gentler than the tactic his parents had taken after Shannon’s funeral. She’s not trying to make him feel…inadequate…for being nearly thirty years old and never having participated in one of the staple celebrations of his cultural heritage, but it is what it is. It doesn’t matter that she isn’t trying.

It’s how he feels anyway. All the time, really, although of course certain things like this bring it to the forefront. That he’s not…enough. That he doesn’t fit. Anywhere.

“You didn’t even like Shannon,” Eddie sighs. He’s not so oblivious that he never noticed the friction, even before she left him—the pressed lips and raised eyebrows and casual comments about why he couldn’t meet a nice chicana instead of dating (and then marrying) a white woman, never around his parents of course, but said nonetheless. 

“Why would you want her picture on your _ofrenda_?”

She shakes her head and reaches out to touch his cheek.

“Because Día de Muertos isn’t about liking,” she says. “It’s about life. And love. You loved that woman, and that blessed boy loved his mother, and it doesn’t matter what the rest of us did or didn’t think about that. You have every right, _Christopher_ has every right, to celebrate that.”

Eddie can’t explain why that gets him choked up, why he has to drop his gaze, why he fiercely, desperately wants to say yes despite the fact that his own feelings about Shannon are too complicated for him to even begin to tease apart. 

Thankfully, he gets an out.

“Daddy,” Christopher calls from the truck.

“I’ll be right there, buddy,” Eddie calls back over his shoulder. 

“So? Should I expect you?”

“I have to work this week,” he hedges.

“You’re working on Thursday,” she points out. “Friday would be the day. All Saints—you should come with me to church anyway. We can finish the _ofrenda_ after.”

That makes him laugh. He hasn’t been to church in…well. But he doesn’t mind being a bad Catholic the same way he minds being a bad Mexican.

“I’ll talk to Christopher,” Eddie acknowledges. “See if he wants to.”

Halloween is Buck’s first day back at work anyway. At the very least, this gives Eddie something to think about and stress over other than that.

His abuela tips her head and looks at him thoughtfully for a long moment.

“It’s never too late,” she says finally. “To start over. To learn. To regain things. Even if you never knew they were lost. My son never understood what was so important about heritage. And I wasn’t there enough for you. But you belong here. If you want to. La puerta está abierta.” 

_The door is open._

Eddie swallows hard.

“I’ll talk to Christopher,” he repeats. “Gracias, abuela.”

“You’re a good man, Edmundo. And you’re raising a good boy,” she says. “None of us say that enough.”

He nods once and gestures toward the truck, unsure what he’s supposed to say to that.

“I should…”

“Go.”

Eddie doesn’t bring it up immediately. Doesn’t say a word to Christopher for a few more days, despite the fact that it’s never far from his mind. But he does dig out a few pictures of Shannon.

_It’s about life. And love._

But finally he does. 

And they say yes.

(If he cries when they get home and he can’t really explain why, well…no one sees it.)


End file.
